


The World Burns

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still doesn’t know what this is, this thing they have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Burns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest, for the prompt 'pizza delivery'. Post Season One.
> 
> * * *

They drive for hours, backtracking around streets blocked by abandoned vehicles, running into groups of walkers that stumble and stagger after them, arms reaching out brokenly to clutch at the doors even as they speed past. Daryl drums his fingers on the steering wheel, checks every five minutes to make sure that his crossbow is still within reaching distance on the passenger seat. 

The stink of the fire is everywhere. It’s baked into his clothes, coats the back of his throat, stings his eyes. It leapt easily to the surrounding buildings, and no matter how many back roads they take he can still see tendrils of far-off flame when he glances in the rear view mirror.

They stop to deliberate, huddle over the map that the old man drags out of the RV. Daryl stands at the edge of the blacktop, scans the horizon with his bow close at hand and lets them dilly-dally over this route or that route. He waits until everything’s been decided before pushing himself up from where he’s been straddling the embankment fence, gets the new route in a few concise words from the former deputy.

They finally stop for the night at the old rail line, just as the sun is starting to set. The fences at either end aren’t that sturdy, but they’ll at least provide some defense against the walkers. It ain’t much, but it’ll have to do. It’s just too fucking dangerous to continue driving, anyhow.

He’s halfway to the boxcar he’s claimed for his own, lugging the few grimy blankets that were stored in the bed of the truck, when he sees Glenn standing silently near the dilapidated shed at the edge of the property, staring at the ground. And he tells himself it ain’t his business – if Glenn wants to stand there ‘til the cows come home, it’s no skin off his nose – but he still finds himself detouring to the old shed once he’s dropped off his shit. He’s just curious, he tells himself. Not concerned.

When he gets there, he discovers that it’s just a walker. Some kid, maybe midway through his 20’s before he turned. Half his arm missing, most of his shirt covered with blood that’s dried and turned from copper to mud, a .38 round neatly in the middle of his forehead. Looks the same as every other walker he’s seen since this damn thing began.

He squints from the geek to the kid, scrubs a hand over the scruff of his beard. “You okay?” he tries.

Glenn looks up, but his eyes are blank.

* * *

“I need a drink,” Glenn says later, when they’ve all bedded down as well as they can in the rusted boxcars at the end of the line. He moved his stuff – little as it is – into Daryl’s car, hesitating in the open doorway until the man glanced up from cleaning his arrows and gave him a curt nod of his head. Which was good, because he really wasn’t in the mood to put up with any shit tonight.

He can vaguely hear Carl crying softly in the next car, Lori’s murmuring words of comfort. 

Now, when Daryl only looks at him blankly, he raises an eyebrow. “I know you’ve got a bottle of whiskey hidden in the glove box,” he says. 

Daryl shrugs, but says nothing as he tosses his rag aside and gets lithely to his feet. He snags the crossbow from the filth-encrusted floor of the boxcar before he leads him outside to the truck.

The whiskey burns going down, reminds him why he never wanted to drink again. He lets the bottle dangle from his fingers, is only vaguely aware when Daryl scoops it up and re-caps it. He stares out the dirty windshield, fixes his eyes on the distant plume of smoke and faint orange glow still hovering in the sky and on the horizon.

“I know him. Knew him,” Glenn says, even though he knows Daryl won’t ask. Would never ask. “His name was Juan. We worked together.”

He turns in time to see Daryl cock his head. “He delivered pizzas?”

“Only part time,” Glenn says. “He was in med school. He wanted to go into pediatric cancer research. His cousin died of it or something. He was going to make a difference.” He shifts his gaze back to the windshield. “And now he’s a blot on the pavement with a bullet in his brainpan.”

The sound of Daryl shifting against the old worn-out leather seats sounds very loud in the silence of the truck. “They ain’t people no more,” he says. “It wasn’t him.”

“But it was,” Glenn insists. He hears his voice break and hates it, but his chest hurts from holding it all in and he carries on, regardless. “They’re all people! They all had lives and friends and other people who loved them. And we mow them down like animals.”

“They’re trying to kill us,” Daryl says reasonably.

Glenn’s eyes are gritty, sore, and he tells himself it’s because of the ash cloud that hangs in the air, spreading on the brisk summer winds relentlessly across the city. He scrubs the heel of his hands over his eyes, only succeeds in causing starbursts of light to flicker across his vision. When he looks up, Daryl is still watching him, eyes dark and wary in the wan early evening light.

“I don’t know what happened to my parents,” he finally gets out. “I tried to reach them. The entire east side was on fire, whole buildings collapsed into rubble in the street. I tried, but I couldn’t find a way through. And then the walkers were everywhere and I couldn’t—“ He breaks off, trying to force away the images of those clogged streets, walkers staggering through the chaos, biting and snarling, the constant screams that all too often were suddenly cut short. He takes a breath, meets Daryl’s eyes. “I don’t know what happened to them,” he says again. “Don’t you… don’t you wonder what happened to your fath—“

“No,” Daryl says shortly.

“But—“

“No, I don’t _wonder_.”

Glenn briefly closes his eyes. Now _he_ wonders, and his overactive imagination can provide any number of nightmare scenarios – Daryl’s father lunging at him and Daryl being forced to draw that lethal knife on his belt, bury it in his own father’s head; Daryl’s dad lurching slowly down the driveway and Daryl having all the time in the world to load his crossbow, to aim at the centre of his father’s forehead. It’s another thing that Daryl won’t tell him, will never tell him. Just like how he got the welts and scars that crisscross his chest and back like battle wounds.

He shudders, opens his eyes and slowly reaches across the seat to lay his hand over Daryl’s.

They’ve been careful, partially because of Merle, partially because Daryl is still wary and skittish, more likely to haul off and lash out than accept any kind of affection. But after a long moment Daryl’s hand turns and Daryl’s fingers interlace with his, and Glenn draws some comfort in that.

He still doesn’t know what this is, this thing they have. He doesn’t know if it’s love or if it’s just two people reaching out for something to hold on to in the insanity of this new life. He does know that it has the potential to _be_ love. If he’s patient. If the universe is kind.

When Daryl uncaps the bottle of rotgut and hands it over, he takes another healthy swallow. Holds Daryl’s hand, and watches the city burn.


End file.
